Bad Habit
by xhotel.california
Summary: They could never be mistaken for lovers. But something may be changing between them. Mayuri/Unnamed!OC Oneshot.


**A/N:** Alright, so I'm back to writing on here after like...over a year, I think. Freaking crazy, right?

Welp, this is my first Bleach fic. It's just a little thing I wrote to get the juices flowing again. May or may not be expanded upon later, depending on the reception this gets.

Reviews are always appreciated.

Pairing: Kurotsuchi/Unnamed OC

Rating: M

Warnings: Language, inexplicit lemon

**Disclaimer:** No, I don't own Bleach or any of it's characters. If I did... well. -insert maniacal laughter here; All that belongs to me is the Jane Doe of an OC I throw in there.

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_"I gave you just enough to paralyze, thought maybe you could satisfy. Sometimes I get so bored of you..."  
__Nothing to do with Love ~ Halestorm_

**Bad Habit**

This isn't the first time this has happened, and it's almost certainly not going to be the last. It's violent to the point of brutality, so rough it can only be described as animalistic. He never takes her from the front, only from behind, and she never acknowledges just who is pounding into her so hard that it's a wonder her knees haven't gone through the floorboards by now.

It's never his chambers they use, and they never make it to the futon rolled out in the corner. There has never been even one kiss shared between them, and there's never likely to be.

The closest they ever get to one another is when he's just about at his peak, when one pasty-white hand is planted on the floor or desk beside hers and the other arm wraps almost possessively around her waist as he hovers over her. But his chest never touches her back, and she never tries to arch into him.

Their sounds aren't soft gasps and gentle whispers of each other's names but growls and grunts and the occasional manic chuckle. They leave marks, but not love-bites that they revel in later. They're deep scratches and bites that leave them both bloody messes by the time they've finished with one another.

Nothing about them is sweet or romantic, and they both prefer it that way. This can barely be called sex, and it certainly isn't lovemaking. It's fucking, pure and primal and simple.

Usually, he comes to her straight from the lab or she to him after a distinctly infuriating mission. It starts with a shove to the wall, or just that look in her eye and he knows. He's never sure _what_ he knows, but that look tells him something. Anyone else would say it tells him she needs him, but they both know she doesn't.

Neither of them needs the other.

And it wouldn't matter if they did.

Usually, he'll snake an arm around her throat in a snug chokehold and start from there. He's never done _this_ before.

He's never marched into her quarters without either his haori or body paint adorning his figure. He's never let her see that much of him. And he's never started with that arm around her waist and hips flush against hers.

He hadn't thrown her to the floor seconds after their mutual but silent agreement of how to spend at least part of the night. Instead, he'd jammed his free hand down the front of her hakama, and to hell with what she had to say about it.

If she ever spoke, that is.

It's one of the things that he actually likes about her. She's silent and hides as much behind a cloth mask that covers one eye, her nose, and mouth as he does behind his paint. He sees almost an equal in her – although she's not as scientifically brilliant as he is.

It's that slight hint of sentimentality that irks him so badly tonight. That has driven him to this, to her quarters at easily three in the morning after being awake for at the very least two days straight, to ignoring any motion that she gave that he needed to stop. Because, no, damn it all, he _doesn't_ care about her.

And no, asshole, the bite mark he leaves deep in her shoulder is _not_ a fucking sign of ownership.

Even if she's just gotten back from a long, obnoxious mission with a small research team. An all male research team. Because he's _not_ jealous, damn it, and he's not bloody _pissed._

And now her mask is down, ripped away by one of them, he doesn't remember which nor does he care to. He'll analyze all this later – or maybe he won't. God knows he won't like the answers he comes up with if he does. So, maybe he'll keep this one in the dark.

But for now he is perfectly okay with ramming into that tight heat and pushing her upper body down until her chest is flush with the floor. Then nearly folding her body in half from there.

He ignores the fact that, usually, she wouldn't have let him go this far. He's only ever allowed to get her on her hands and knees, or he's likely to actually get himself killed.

But tonight, she lets him. And as he nears finishing and that hand comes down beside hers, she _does_ arch her back and lets out perhaps the most delicious sound he's ever heard. He finds her smaller hand over his own and as he goes to pull it back, he instead finds his fingers curling through the spaces between hers and he curses himself for it.

And then she's squeezing around him in the way she knows he needs, and he's spilling inside her. Just to piss her off as much as she's been enraging him.

She doesn't resist him, though, much to his utter irritation. She doesn't even _react_. There's no extra little growl, no kick to the hip, no spinning and lunging at him, nothing. She just...takes it and slips out from under his body, swallowing back any sound that she might have made about him leaving her body and his seed slowly slipping out of her.

There are angry, red trails down her sides from where his nails had damn near broken the skin that match the swelling claw marks on his arms where she had dug her own nails in and clamped down. But it's as if she doesn't notice. Usually, she'd turn back to him with a grin then kick him out of her quarters for the night.

Tonight, however, she simply pulls her clothes back into place and waves a hand to him. She doesn't turn around at all. There's no grin, no rolled eyes, no foot to the stomach until he's gone. She just slides onto her bed, watching with cold green eyes from the shadow that hovers over her as he leaves the room.

He doesn't see her finger trace the already-bruised bite mark he's left in the crook of her neck, and she doesn't see his fist slam into the wall just outside her quarters.


End file.
